Amongst the 'toes

We've found all sorts of things in the garden since we've moved into our house. Shards of this, pieces of that, small toy cars and marbles . But what should be staring up at me from the depths of the potato patch this afternoon?

One might expect a three-inch person when they pull out a mandrake root, but a potato? I've heard of potatoes producing a rare seed or two, but children? And why do you suppose this strange little fellow is frowing? I guess this will remain one of the mysteries of the soil. Another mystery of the soil....mushrooms.

Springing from what appears to be naught and disappearing just as quickly.

I once read an article that hypothesized Mother Nature might just be a giant mushroom with mycelia reaching into every cell of every living thing. There are mushroom that stretch thousands of acres--one in Washington and one in Oregon have already been discovered. Or listen to mycologist Paul Stamets sometime. What is it about science that as it gets more detailed and complex begins to look like magic?

Whether science, magic or both, mushrooms make a great excuse for taking a walk through the woods with my favorite little man.

And as much as he enjoyed spotting mushrooms, it was the salamanders that enthralled him.

Final count: Seventeen mushrooms, seven salamanders, one tired little boy and one incredibly contented mama.

After the rain

Monday may have been the first time this summer that the rain actually managed to break through the humidity. After months of temperatures in the 90's and 100's, we entered a blissful week of mild 70's. You could almost hear the garden sighing. And I know I heard the little bear sighing. Well, more like giggling.

We discovered this little guy sipping droplets from our maple tree. Hopefully he wasn't nibbling on the bark between sips. Anyone know what kind of caterpillar this might be?

I don't know what it is about trees after the rain, but they always take on an otherworldly aura. It is when they are damp and smell of the wild forest that I swear they just might move at any moment. Lifting up their white soil-smeared roots and wandering peacefully around the yard.

Just the right kind of moment for a spontaneous batch of Elf Soup. Recipe courtesy of the little bear. First you stir the broth...

Then you add some oregano...

Then you dump in some olive oil. Just a little.

The end.

Summer of Lakes

We've been spending an excessive amount of time in and around a number of lakes this year. The heat seems to drive us to the water. And water around here means mountain lakes. There is something kitchy about mountain lakes. Reminds me of Dirty Dancing and the family retreats of the 1960s. And retreat as a family we have. I wonder if the time isn't ripe for a family camp renaissance.

Mauch Chunk Lake...

Gouldsboro Lake...

Lake Ariel...

Volunteers welcome

I’m a sucker for volunteers. A warm-hearted gardener, welcoming everyone who appears friendly no matter they’re growing exactly where they shouldn’t be. I just don’t have the guts to rip a thriving plant from the ground and toss it nonchalantly on the compost heap. These are the survivors, the fighters, the ornery ones who have managed to appear often in spite of all our efforts otherwise.

Plus, I’m the curious sort. What could it be? I hear myself thinking. Of course, some things are obvious, like the potatoes that spring up all over the garden every year. We always manage to miss a spud or two during harvest. But this squash? I’m intrigued. Last year our volunteer compost squash was the most delectable I’ve ever tasted. We still haven’t identified its heritage, but we did save some seed so we could plant it with intention this year.

Or the tomato in my corn patch, or the pretty flower in the bed by the front porch. . .

I have no idea what this is, but I’m sure it is some sort of tenacious weed that will come back year after year all over my yard. But, just look at those scalloped leaves and that dainty yellow flower. Gorgeous! (In the spirit of full disclosure, I did tear this one out before it went completely to seed.)

So my garden is a little wild, a little messy, bordering on chaos. But it feeds me…in more ways than one. How does your garden feed you?

Come visit me Over the Fence for more growing, eating and weeding the organic way!

Wild leeks...and I'm not talking plumbing

The wild leeks are spreading their pungent toes across the woodland floor all over Pennsylvania right now. Although they’re currently carpeting the nearby state park, I’ve decided not to risk jail time or exorbitant fines in pursuit of the slightly garlicky alliums. Luckily, my father-in-law has a secret patch.

Its "a don’t ask, don’t tell" kind of arrangement. My husband goes to visit and comes home with brown bags full of green leaves and white bulbs. It always takes much longer to clean them than I expect, but once I taste their sharp, sweet goodness, I instantly remember why it really is worth the effort. Plus, I’m pretty much an utter failure at growing onions, so collecting this onion-like creature helps me feel a little better about that black spot on my otherwise green-thumb...

Come see me Over the Fence to read the rest of the post and get a tasty recipe for Wild Leek and Sausage Soup!

Generation Rhubarb

Every year since my husband and I moved into our home, my parents have brought us cuttings and clippings and diggings from their yard. Many of which they received, rhizome-by-rhizome, stem-by-stem, and seed-by-seed from my grandparents, who received them in the same fashion from their parents. We have second generation vincas, sweet woodruff, foxgloves, lilies-of-the-valley, and black-eyed-Susans. We have third generation lilacs, chives, and giant dill. But, the rhubarb?

Our rhubarb has roots that extend back at least four generations, maybe more . . .

Want to read more? I'm posting a bit over at Organic Gardening magazine's blog. Come visit me Over the Fence!

When in nature...

As many of my regular readers are aware, I've breastfed my little bear well into pre-school-hood. We've had a lovely nursing relationship, not without bumps, but as much as I worried he wouldn't take to the breast, he absolutely adores them.

We've wound down nursing sessions to only naptime. He had nary a problem giving up his early morning "snack." Although this also meant that instead of latching on at 5:30 am and drifting back to blissful slumber until 8:00 am or so, he's now wide awake at 6:30 am (sign, groan, yawn). But, naptime he's holding onto a little while longer.

Despite an overwhelming amount of support from my family when the little bear was first born, as we sailed past one....then two....then three (gasp!), the support has turned into obvious silence and occassional suggestions that it really might be "time." Past time, in fact.

And as much as I have loved breastfeeding my child, I will admit, I'm ready for the nursing relationship to come to a natural end. But, as parents (and especially as mothers) we tend to put our own wants and needs aside for the sake of our children. And he just doesn't seem to be on the same page as I.

Then, the other day we were enjoying the lovely spring weather, and the little bear said something that made me really reflect on breastfeeding and societal "norms." The sun was sparkling golden through the branches of our maple, the grass was whispering the warm breeze and the birds were trilling a happy tune. And it was nap time. We had a blanket laid on the grass and a tee-pee of branches and an old sheet for playing and I asked the little bear if he wanted to take a nap outside.

His eyes lit up and he shook his head enthusiastically. Then he said, "Can I have ba-ba's too?" (His slang for nursing.) My knee jerk answer was "No, honey. Let's go inside and take a nap if you want to nurse." My heart sank before the words were completely out of my mouth. As did his sweet little face.

"But, why mommy?" he said. And I had no answer. At least no answer I was proud to share. Why, really? Other people think it's weird for a three-year-old to still be nursing? I was horrified at how I had allowed what other people might think to affect how I was mothering my child. And, boy, was I sad when I thought about the fact that it really was the disapproval of my immediate family that had me acting ashamed of breastfeeding my pre-schooler.

How had this happened? How had I lost the bold and proud attitude that I was doing what was right and best for my child, and that I would do so no matter what anyone thought? And what kind of message was I sending to my little bear?

I tried to back-pedal and tell him we could certainly stay outside if he wanted, but he was already onto the next thought and headed happily inside. I, on the other hand, am still wrestling with what happened. I always pictured myself as that mother who nurses her child whenever and wherever he/she needs. (And when I say "needs," I don't just mean for nutritional purposes.) Of course, I guess I never pictured myself nursing a three-year-old either.

A recent BabyCenter newsletter just tackled the "blankie" issue, concluding that three- and four-year-olds often still need their blankie or stuffie for emotional comfort and that parent's shouldn't concern themselves with trying to take them away just yet. My question is what if your child's "blankie" is actually your breast? Why is a child's attachment to an inanimate object okay, but a child's attachment to the very source of physical, emotional and spiritual nourishment taboo?

My heart is still hollow when I think about it. Maybe it is time to give up on child-led weaning and do what I've seen so many animal mamas do. Or, stop agonizing and just let our nursing relationship run it's course with confidence and pride.